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Fourteen-forty. Two, three circles, interwoven, dreams under a cerulean sky. Laughter, children beneath, leaping, hands clutched, fruit abundant. The wind sighs like loving mothers, caressing your face, warmly. Voices below, fading away in the city square, one-eared cats and tea spilled into palms, utopia’s mirror.You can’t help but stare. There’s nothing to be said. Fourteen-forty, the clock names. Blue sky and pearly walls, perfect circles at every turn. Crystal trays tiering tarts, boasting a luscious red, silky lemon, a bite carved delicately. Tea spilled into porcelain dishes, black leaves unsettled, strawberries picked like flowers, abundant today and yesterday and tomorrow too. You know that.The hallways, too, face the sun. Stained glass shimmers in the sky, depicting heroes, painting perfection. Where was I? Two saviours, locked in precious embrace. Triangles with crystal edges. Swords sheathed, hands bared, vaguely reminiscing something forgotten. A thousand colours fill the light. Gold all around. Nothing to be said. It’s not hard to breathe here. The air rings fresh, like wildflowers and something more familiar. Your eyes dart upwards, searching. Fourteen-forty.You blink and then the sky’s dark, moon bared for the floor to see. It’s gentle, like the hand around your waist. Golden hair. Eyes to lose oneself in, a warmth that reminds you of wine, soiling your robes, sitting hot in your stomach. Painlessly.It’s easy to forget your pain, too, in his light. Blinded. Do not take his hand. Eyes seared shut, whispers of promise in your ears. Hands warm enough to burn. It’s so familiar it stings. Just two people, so small they could be children. It’s a starry night.It’s easier still to forget yourself, in his arms. Waltzing on water, impossible things assured by a smile. Simplified into words, blue roses in bloom. Pressed immeasurably close. Like the moon, like eyes closed in a bedroom for two. Like hands bared for him to see. Like a sin. The stars are bright, tonight.
I am blinded…
…by this golden light.